LVII.
Now all is o’er—for thee alike are flown
Freedom’s bright noon and slavery’s twilight cloud;
And in thy fall, as in thy pride, alone,
Deep solitude is round thee as a shroud.
Home of Leonidas! thy halls are low;
From their cold altars have thy Lares fled;
O’er thee, unmark’d, the sunbeams fade or glow,
And wild-flowers wave, unbent by human tread;
And midst thy silence, as the grave’s profound,
A voice, a step, would seem as some unearthly sound.